Written.

Monday, 16 May 2011

Exit. Chapter 1

I meet him again tomorrow, it's not some ridiculous firework explosion which people describe and the butterflies are long eaten, I just stare and that is to be the feeling, with bigger expectations and my cheeks hint that. He pretends to look away and I hope that my senses are telling me the truth. That it is some mutual shyness with blabbering buttons in the middle. I try to force out a smile, knowing that I had no intentions to make this platonic feeling into something else. It's just mutual staring that would result in orgasm, maybe. I wouldn't wake, I'd fall.

I liked platonic love. It didn’t take my time, it gave me hope. I'd paint not knowing the qualities or seeing the wrapper instead of the breaking teeth candy. It gave me that small sprout of hope while I listened to my roommate’s sobs about how her latest boyfriend dumping her or the other way, as the process went on, as I slept, as my own just circulated both of us spinning around with childish laughter and childish platonic love among our bodies.

In the end I give out no smile as he fixes his glasses.

But I get one on my face after he passes me. A rather long and face hurting one. He won't see it, just the unknown crowd who might hold someone else, someone whom I've read about in fairytales.

I keep him inside me for seconds, for minutes, for hours, for days. I know that I can easily strode onto months and years because so far none of my platonic loves ever turned out into a real relationship. I’d pout until I’d find another so-called victim to my thoughts as I fall into my bed of dreams or I’d chicken out if I’ll see him gazing at me just as starry as I’d do. As he'd build more mes and I'd build more of those. We'd never know.

Then it wouldn’t be as private, it would involve hand holding, kissing, making-out, dating and stuff which wasn’t just for me to share I’d have to share them with that person, something I despite to do. I'd have to weaken the love I hold, because then it would go outside and see the belief that love is a second.

Like that one time when I was stupid enough to play Seven Minutes in Heaven. Who plays that while they are fourteen? Apparently my class does. Now I have to walk past the guy as fast as possible, because he knows the inside of my mouth, because I had wanted to. I don't think he remembers me, so let it be two-sided.

Why do I have to share?

I want that memory, that feeling devolve inside me, not concerning not touching anyone else. It’s mine, it’s mine to throw away, it’s fully mine to pick up, if I feel like it. There's no one real attached to it, because I question my subconsciousness.

That’s why I steal glances at him, as he goes away to fade in the three walking past people, as I think of names for him. But then I prefer him without a name, like that abstract prince on a white horse, only for me he is the tall guy with specs in a dark unbuttoned coat. I check, he has buttons, but I even run through my brother’s magazine. Nope, nothing about wearing your coat open is a cool thing. He is the next cool thing which you stick onto your wall and lick.

I went to bed earlier after that encounter.

Not because I was tired due to the constant feeling. But because I wanted everybody to bog off, as they seemed to be asking about my personal life if there was any young man I liked. I laid down, undressed, pajamas ruffling my body, as the ceiling hugged me back and tried to kiss him.

The image of him fixing his specs would come to mind as his hazel eyes looked up, trying to concentrate on the cloud above. His eyes weren’t hazel, they had a unhealthy red tint in the hazel. No, he didn’t resemble a vampire ready to press a kiss upon my neck before biting my skin, giving me some eternity I would long for, to stop feeling the loss of time. Instead he looked completely human-like in his coat, shoes and scarf which appeared as it got colder.

He was more human than 98% of the world's population by his mere looks.

I’d lay down, sometimes headphones in my ears, as I’d imagine everything up to our first encounter. One day I’d imagine him walk up to me, ask me for a date.

And I'd say yes to sit there alone, eating the croissant as he'd come and I'd be croissant.

The next day I’d imagine us bumping into each other, then out of the blue he’d say that do I have lullaby written on the back of my palm with a miniature Robert Smith drawn? I’d nod blushing lightly, like the female protagonists usually do in stupid romantic comedies.

I am the tragedy, so be my sin.

I'd kiss.

Afterwards we’d walk past each other for half of our lives after three unsuccessful marriages that we have nothing to lose. We'd have kids in between to blow, as the petals would fall on his face for him to stroke my lips with his tongue, the glasses falling off. We’d have three children Alex, Jonathan and D’arcy. Then we’d have a whole, no, three kinder gardens of grandchildren. An arc to build and sell by our children's health.

On the last three days I didn’t see him up to the point that I stood near the music store where I worked, practically praying to see him. I do not believe in the light above, as it leaks from the sewers. Nothing. I chewed on my bottom lip, giving out a sigh, knowing, in my head that he couldn’t make it due to an arm he broke.

As if that was the bad thing. My relatives practically jumped out of their skin, muttering that it was over some guy. Again, all in my head. Some arguing that I was too young in my sixteen, others that I should be quick before all nice guys are taken as if they are clothes on sale, which resemble those which appeared in last season’s Vogue. But I'd have to change the seasons by chopping off the sleeves, until I'd be standing naked ready to scream and my head bald. I excuse myself silently, knowing that they were arguing over me in front of me, but my presence was not required.

The image of the person is there.

I struggle if I should give him a name or not which results a sleepless last night before I return back to boarding school, finally. My relatives cry a fake river before deposing me in the car with my uncle. I muffle his questions and answers by listening to music, which was a good creation for me because I could mute out the whole world with its stupidity. I watched him, trying not to laugh or raise an eyebrow as he tilted his head backwards, sideways towards me, jerking a finger in the air, not watching the road.

Maybe I should call him Graham.

But then he didn’t look as geeky, he didn’t resemble a Graham, only his specs did. Maybe hair colour, but nothing else. His glasses weren’t as thick, his hair longer a cheeky delighted grin sometimes spread on the face under his straight nose under the powder.

---

Roberta is more controversial now, after a few changes and I'd also like to jote that I barely delete anything, all I do is add different scenes.

There's the new poll on the side.

(2015): This is very odd to revise, yet here I am. Also I wrote this right after Papercut and started around Christmas, when Papercut was finished. It's odd to add backstory now, years later, the guy Roberta meets in this chapter was based off the fact that I would bump into this guy throughout all of my summer art school lessons while heading there and I used that here, really. Just adding, since I like talking about backstory even if now, I'm reading it and I see the realism but I understand that I was capturing someone else entirely and a different gender as well. But either way, I guess it's a good read for whoever wants it or is scrolling to my older stories, here with you xD

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Writing just seems to be the form where examples are the simplest and situations the realest.

My frustration is the fuel which my characters face and just limiting the value of my writing to good prose is Kubrick cutting the end of A Clockwork Orange to make a shallow movie about violence.

My work is my anger and everyone's anger at ignorance at those who will limit anyone to the background.

The further work is not about love, love is the aid to get us through society which we've created, born into and have to struggle with every day.

And love is the fuel, the fuel to the anger which I have to bear for being queer and deviant.

And I am not a love story. I am not something to cry over. I am something which should make you realize if you are at a privileged position that you should make a change, if you are discriminated, that you are not alone, that we should all have this fuel and should never just be limited to love.

Because our anger is valid.

We became our anger, so that the love will not only nourish us now, but later when all is done and we are no longer deviant to a society who hates itself.

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I do not own any of the character, band or other names based off real persons and groups; they served only as inspiration for my characters in the stories, whose rights I own. The works published herein and elsewhere by me are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to real life events is merely coincidental. No libel or slander is intended.